12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Hazel

Since I keep forgetting to ask Olivier if I can use his washing machine, I get dressed in my last clean outfit—a black tube skirt with a red blouse—and slip into my stilettos. I apply some red lipstick and check myself in the mirror, just like I would if I were going on a date.

But y ou are not going on a date, Hazel. It's just a— A . . . Well, whatever this is, it's not a date. That's all I know.

Taking a deep breath, I step out of "my" bedroom. Olivier is leaning against the kitchen bar, scrolling on his phone. He glances toward me.

"Wow," he says. "You look magnifique ."

"Oh, this?" I say, looking down and pretending I dress like this every night. Which I don't. "It's nothing."

"Oh, it's something," he says, his eyes raking my body.

"No, it's really not," I say, my cheeks suddenly burning. The last thing I need is for him to think I think this is a date. "But we are going to a triple Michelin-starred restaurant, so I have to dress up a little bit."

He nods. "Right. Should we go, then?"

"Yes. Oh, one more thing. Could I use your washing machine tomorrow? I'm running out of clean clothes."

"Of course you can. Anything you need," he says, opening the front door to let me through.

"Thanks," I say, blushing a few shades deeper as he steps in front of me to close the door behind us. Why am I so shy about asking to wash my clothes at his place? I've been eating his home cooking and sleeping next door to him. There's something seriously wrong with me.

"By the way, are you using my body wash?" he asks, cocking his head to the side .

My cheeks are now a pair of hot frying pans. "Maybe."

He chuckles and shakes his head.

"It's because I'm out of shower gel," I lie. In truth, I haven't touched mine since I got here. His is just too addictive. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. Do you want me to take you to the store so you can buy some? Or I can show you the way if you want to go alone."

"Oh no, I'm fine. I actually like yours. It smells nice. If you don't mind me using it, of course," I add, realizing I've already taken enough advantage of his generosity.

"No. Feel free to use it," he says, wringing his hands. "I don't mind at all. It smells nice on you. Anyway, we should really get going." He breathes a chuckle, but it sounds more like a nervous laugh.

I swallow hard as I follow him to the car. Could this be any more awkward?

Olivier is pulling the car into a parking spot when my phone rings. Jeff again. This is his fourth time calling today, and even if he is a cool boss, I'm going to be out of a job soon if I don't answer him.

"Hey, Jeff," I say when I pick up the phone. Then, I mouth "my boss" to Olivier, who nods in understanding before turning the ignition off.

"Hazel! How are you doing? Did you manage to score reservations?" Jeff asks, his usual cheery tone bursting through the phone.

"I'm good. Yes, I did," I say, stealing a glance at Olivier.

"Fantastic. Which ones?"

I get out of the car as he's talking, and I slam the door a bit harshly behind me. Turning around, I notice Olivier has already gotten out as well. There goes my plan of blurting the name of the restaurant incognito.

"What did you say?" I frown, pressing my hand against my ear. "I can't hear you well. Service is terrible."

Great excuse, Hazel. You're in the middle of Paris.

"I said, which restaurants?"

"Oh, um. I'm not sure how to pronounce the names, but I'll send you a text right away, okay?" My heart is rattling in my chest, and my body feels hot under my blouse. I'm not the best liar. Ironic, since I've been doing just that nonstop for a few days now .

"Yeah, okay," Jeff says, his voice lilting in confusion. "I'll be looking forward to your reviews. You did a great job with the ones from last week. They should be live on the website in no time."

My eyes widen, and I'm suddenly sweating. "Oh, already? I'm sure there are still a lot of edits to work on. Paris is messing with my brain. Actually, if you don't mind, I was thinking I could take a look at them again."

I know I shouldn't attempt to stop my reviews from being posted just because I'm now friends with the chef. It's completely unethical. I ate at Olivier's restaurant on the company payroll and reviewed his cuisine with an objective eye. Even if that meal wasn't representative of his talents, that's the meal I had to judge. I hate that I just asked Jeff for this favor, but I couldn't help myself. It's a lot harder to follow my code of ethics when Olivier is standing a few feet away from me, staring back at me with his usual kind eyes. He's a decent man. A good man. An excellent chef who deserves recognition. And I don't want to hurt him.

"What are you talking about?" Jeff asks, his confusion clearly mounting. "What could you possibly change? You did great, as always. Very detailed and fair. Once it's edited, it'll be posted online. I'll let you know."

"Okay," I peep, glancing at Olivier. He frowns, and I force myself to plaster on a big smile. Then, I jerk my head, indicating we can start walking. The fact that he's staring at me doesn't help.

"All right. Send me the next ones as soon as you can," my boss chirps.

I swallow to wet my dry throat. "Sure. Bye, Jeff."

Once I end the call, I stay silent, trying to digest the conversation and the dose of reality that just slapped me in the face. "Are you okay?" Olivier asks, shooting me a concerned glance.

I shake my thoughts into focus and force another grin. "Yes, sorry. It was my supervisor. You know how bosses are."

His frown dissolves into an empathetic smile. "I do. I'm sorry if I've kept you from your work, and if I made you late for anything. It wasn't my intention."

"Don't be," I say, my smile genuine this time. "I loved cooking with you, and don't worry, you haven't made me late for anything. "

It just keeps getting harder and harder to hide who I really am from this man.

When we arrive at the restaurant, I fully intend to put my work face on. But the guilt is eating me alive. Jeff's phone call reminded me that I'm only here for one reason—work. At the same time, my presence here tonight is solely thanks to my new friend, Olivier. How can I ignore him and focus on my job in this situation? It's impossible. Drawing a deep breath, I try to focus, but when Olivier has his hand on the small of your back, guiding you to your table, focusing is impossible. Try it, I dare you.

The restaurant is beautiful, all dressed in white and beige with wood accents to warm up the space. We're seated in the far corner of the room, which opens to a view of the sparkling Eiffel Tower. Ivy would approve.

We order the tasting menu, and Olivier chooses, with the help of the sommelier, a nice bottle of wine to pair with our dinner.

His phone buzzes with a notification, and he grabs it from his pocket. "Sorry. I'll put it on silent. Oh, wait, it's Mom." A smile lights up his face as he texts her back. "She loved you. Just like I knew she would, so thank you again." Tucking his phone away, he raises his glass to me.

"My pleasure," I say as I clink my glass with his. "I had a great time."

"Hopefully, her faith in me will be restored, and that will last well after our ‘breakup,'" he says. "Then, I'll be off the hook for a while."

I laugh even as my stomach sinks. "You really don't want a girlfriend, do you?"

He pauses, looking thoughtful. Just as he's about to speak, the waiter brings us our first dish. Braised scallops with caviar and a creamy parsnip sauce. We both take a bite and appreciate the flavors. It's truly fantastic. The marriage of the earthy and saline flavors is a surprising hit, and the texture of the velouté is addictive.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

"I do. The velouté is comforting, and the caviar and scallops add a touch of pep."

"I couldn't have said it better myself. Try the wine with it," he says, taking a sip. "To answer your question, I have nothing against dating. It's just not the right time for me. I only got back a year ago, and I'm working in a new place, trying to find my footing. In fact, this is the first time I've had a vacation in—well—a year. So this is definitely not representative of my regular routine," he jokes. "I do go to the farmer's market and cook, but after that, I have little time to relax since I have to drive into the city and start cooking again for the entire night. During my days off, I work on dishes at home, or I see my family, but my life is mostly work."

"I see what you mean. I'm in the same boat, and it's a rocky one. I don't know what my boss will say when I admit I don't want the job here," I say with a sigh. "All his hopes are resting on me. I wanted the promotion, but I don't know. It just doesn't feel right."

He eats the last bites of his dish. "Is that why you're not dating?"

"Not really. My job allows me personal time, and I have actually dated since my last long-term relationship ended—when my ex chose a skinny blonde and a surfboard over me—but it was one failure after the next. It was like the more I pushed for it, the worse it got. So, I just stopped trying altogether and embraced the single life," I say with an awkward chuckle .

"I'll drink to that," Olivier says, raising his glass again before bringing it to his lips. "To being single."

Olivier

As our dinner progresses, I'm more and more impressed by Hazel's vast knowledge of food. She knows most of the spices and plants we talk about, even the more uncommon and complex ones, like woodruff and cistre— AKA, the Alps' fennel.

"How do you know so much about cooking and flavors?" I finally ask when the server comes to take our last dish away. "I've never met anyone who's not in the industry with that much knowledge."

Her face turns pink, and it might just be my new favorite color. "Oh, um, I guess it just became a passion over the years. I just love eating so much."

"Still," I say, nodding appreciatively. "It's wonderful, all the things you know. And you're so good at identifying flavors. You have a good palate."

Her blush deepens, her long lashes covering her eyes as she looks down. I'm starting to wonder why she doesn't appreciate the compliment when she raises her eyes with a coy smile. "What, you mean for an American?"

A lighthearted laugh escapes me. "Not at all. I don't even know many French people who know what cistre is, for example."

And that knack for ingredients only increases her attractiveness—something I didn't think possible. But I must be delusional. Hazel doesn't want to date anyone, and I don't want to date anyone, so let's not go there. Plus, as soon as the strike ends, she'll be out of here, and the last thing I need right now is a broken heart. I'm having enough creativity problems at work as it is.

"Well, thank you," she finally says as the waiter brings the end-of-meal mini pastries. "It's actually my mom who got me into cooking. She looooved food." She pauses, her finger tracing the rim of her glass as a smile tugs at her lips. "She introduced us to high gastronomy at a very young age. Every time there was a special occasion, we'd go out to dinner to celebrate. We also cooked a lot together, and she was very inventive and creative in her cuisine. We'd scour the market for new ingredients and try new recipes all the time. Ivy and I had a blast, but I was the one who was really passionate about it. I would buy recipe books with my allowance and look online for the best spots to eat."

As she speaks, warmth swells in my chest. I love that she shared her passion with her family, especially her mom. "And you never wanted to go to culinary school? I'm sure you could have." It's true. She has great instincts and the passion for it, which are key in this difficult line of work.

She looks down, and I wonder if I shouldn't have asked. "I was going to, but my mom got sick when I was fourteen, and I moved from cooking to eating. Cooking reminded me too much of her, and eating was a comfort."

"Food has a way of doing that," I say with a warm smile. "But believe me, there's something extremely cathartic in cooking too."

Her eyes land on mine for a second. "Yeah, you might be right."

The waiter interrupts us to ask us if we need anything else, but we're both stuffed. So, we stop by the kitchen to greet Ludovic, our chef for the night. I met him a few years ago at a food festival in the city.

"Ludo," I say, shaking his hand. His kitchen looks just like every other large restaurant's kitchen—Inox and tile everywhere—and I immediately feel right at home. The warm, almost stuffy smell of dish soap as the dishwashers hum in the background, cleaning the day's wares, provides a sense of safety. Yeah, I might be a junkie for dish soap.

"?a va ?" he says as his eyes rake Hazel's body. I want to crush his hand when I shake it, but I don't. He really needs his hand. And I could compromise mine.

" Oui, merci. Je te présente Hazel, my American friend . " No need to pretend here. Unfortunately.

Hazel peers at me, then Ludovic, and he kisses her hand like the gentleman he is. " Ravi de vous rencontrer ."

Her blush is on full display as she replies, "Enchanté . Sorry for my French, but I just wanted to say your cooking was amazing. I particularly loved the duck. Perfectly executed, with so much flavor and tenderness."

"Oh," Ludo says, glancing at me. "I like her." He then directs his attention back to Hazel. "You should eat here more often."

She chuckles, and I force myself to join in, but it sounds more like a growl. " Oui, c'était délicieux, Ludo. Comme toujours. Merci."

"My pleasure."

I clasp my hands together and turn to Hazel. "Great. Should we get going?"

"Sounds good." She casts Ludo one last smile. "Thank you again, so much. I had a fantastic time."

"Thank you for coming, and if you ever visit Paris again, please give me a call."

I press my lips together in an attempt to hold my tongue. Who knows what I might say when he's ogling Hazel that way?

The pink of her cheeks deepens. "I will."

"Bye," I say a little louder, walking away and hoping that Hazel is following. Thankfully, she is.

What was I thinking, taking her to Ludo's restaurant? He's a great guy and an excellent cook. Wake up, Olivier. You weren't thinking anything. She's not your girlfriend.

"I did have a great night," she repeats as we're walking down the stairs onto the street. "Thank you again for scoring us a table. And it was so nice of him to invite us to dine, his treat. I mean, that was a very expensive meal. I kind of felt weird accepting it."

I shove my hands in my coat pockets. "Don't. It's what we do between us chefs. It's normal. "

"Okay, well, this fake dating thing is really working in my favor," she jokes.

I squeeze my gloves in my pockets. "Yeah. I guess we're both gaining something after all."

And I'm starting to think I'll be the one who loses the most.